I want to go back to Woodstock, Snoopy said. Times were easy then. The crowds swirled among the hoisted amps like footballs swirling the drain in tragic hallucinations of forgotten touchdown celebrations. Play the music at the game, and remember all the good times, then. Football lives on, and it will never surrender.

Woodstock, Woodstock, take me home. To the metaphorical allusion, and the congratulatory wheat fields of syntactically-grandiloquent aromatherapy. Smells are words, and letters are nothing. Take this train to nowhere, and never look back.

The blues on the horizon have been shaded into ecstatic 18th-century toys. Martin Wilson called, and he wants his alibi back. Nothing I've said was a lie, from the very beginning.

I wish you all a fantastic weekend, and a wonderful permanency. Please, have a nice day. May the forlorn conflagration of yesteryear never again devoir the frames of your yearning wooden houses. Goodbye!

No, obviously not. Use your brain. Why would I think that trying to injure someone and making a mistake are the same? I'm saying it's ridiculous to suggest that nobody can ever criticize a college athlete.

Last season, someone (I forget who) said he saw black players and white players sitting separately, and not intermingling (while at a bar or restaurant or something). He was bitched at and flamed massively.